2 A Visit From Doctor Yamada
He awoke. He was still in his chair before the window, and the moon was paling before the grayness of dawn. He was shaken with nausea, sick and shuddering with the shocking realism of his dream. His clothing was drenched with perspiration, and his heart hammered furiously. An immense lethargy seemed to have overwhelmed him, making it an intense effort to rise from the chair and stagger to a couch, on which he flung himself to doze fitfully for several hours.
A sharp pealing of the door-bell roused him. He still felt weak and dizzy, but the frightening lethargy had somewhat abated. When Dean opened the door, a Japanese standing on the porch began a bobbing little bow, a gesture that was abruptly arrested as the sharp black eyes focussed on Dean’s face. A little hiss of indrawn breath came from the visitor.
Dean said irritably, “Well? Do you want to see me?”
The other was still staring, his thin face sallow beneath a stiff thatch of gray hair. He was a small, slender man, with his face covered with a fine-spun web of wrinkles. After a pause he said, “I am Doctor Yamada.”
Dean frowned, puzzled. Abruptly he remembered his uncle’s cable of the day before. An odd, unreasonable irritation began to mount within him, and he said, more bruskly than he had intended, “This isn’t a professional call, I hope. I’ve already——”
“Your uncle—you are Mr. Dean?—cabled me. He was rather worried.” Doctor Yamada glanced around almost furtively.
Dean felt distaste stir within him, and his irritation increased.
“My uncle is rather eccentric, I’m afraid. There’s nothing for him to worry about. I’m sorry you had your trip for nothing.”
Doctor Yamada did not seem to take offense at Dean’s attitude. Rather, a strange expression of sympathy showed for a moment on his small face.
“Do you mind if I come in?” he asked, and moved forward confidently.
Short of barring his way, Dean had no means of stopping him, and ungraciously led his guest to the room where he had spent the night, motioning him to a chair while he busied himself with a coffee-pot.
Yamada sat motionless, silently watching Dean. Then without preamble he said, “Your uncle is a great man, Mr. Dean.”
Dean made a noncommittal gesture. “I have seen him only once.”
“He is one of the greatest occultists of this day. I, too, have studied psychic lore, but beside your uncle I am a novice.”
Dean said, “He is eccentric. Occultism, as you term it, has never interested me.”
The little Japanese watched him impassively. “You make a common error, Mr. Dean. You consider occultism a hobby for cranks. No”—he held up a slender hand—“your disbelief is written in your face. Well, it is understandable. It is an anachronism, an attitude handed down from the earliest times, when scientists were called alchemists and sorcerers and burned for making pacts with the devil. But actually there are no sorcerers, no—witches. Not in the sense that man understands these terms. There are men and women who have acquired mastery over certain sciences which are not wholly subject to mundane physical laws.”
There was a little smile of disbelief on Dean’s face. Yamada went on quietly. “You do not believe because you do not understand. There are not many who can comprehend, or who wish to comprehend, this greater science which is not bound by earthly laws. But here is a problem for you, Mr. Dean.” A little spark of irony flickered in the black eyes. “Can you tell me how I know you have suffered from nightmares recently?”
Dean jerked around and stood staring. Then he smiled.
“As it happens, I know the answer, Doctor Yamada. You physicians have a way of hanging together—and I must have let something slip to Doctor Hedwig yesterday.” His tone was offensive, but Yamada merely shrugged slightly.
“Do you know your Homer?” he asked, apparently irrelevantly, and at Dean’s surprized nod went on, “And Proteus? You remember the Old Man of the Sea who possessed the power of changing his shape? I do not wish to strain your credulity, Mr. Dean, but for a long time students of the dark lore have known that behind this legend there exists a very terrible truth. All the tales of spirit-possession, of reincarnation, even the comparatively innocuous experiments in thought-transference, point to the truth. Why do you suppose folklore abounds with tales of men who have been able to change themselves into beasts—werewolves, hyenas, tigers, the seal-men of the Eskimos? Because these tales are founded on truth!
“I do not mean,” he went on, “that the actual physical metamorphosis of the body is possible, so far as we know. But it has long been known that the intelligence—the mind—of an adept can be transferred to the brain and body of a satisfactory subject. Animals’ brains are weak, lacking the power of resistance. But men are different, unless there are certain circumstances——”
As he hesitated, Dean proffered the Japanese a cup of coffee—coffee was generally brewing in the percolator these days—and Yamada accepted it with a formal little bow of acknowledgment. Dean drank his coffee in three hasty gulps, and poured more. Yamada, after a polite sip, put the cup aside and leaned forward earnestly.
“I must ask you to make your mind receptive, Mr. Dean. Don’t allow your conventional ideas of life to influence you in this matter. It is vitally to your interest that you listen carefully to me, and understand. Then—perhaps——”
He hesitated, and again threw that oddly furtive glance at the window.
“Life in the sea has followed different lines from life on land. Evolution has followed a different course. In the great deeps of the ocean, life utterly alien to ours has been discovered—luminous creatures which burst when exposed to the lighter pressure of the air—and in those tremendous depths forms of life completely inhuman have been developed, life forms that the uninitiated mind may think impossible. In Japan, an island country, we have known of these sea-dwellers for generations. Your English writer, Arthur Machen, has told a deep truth in his statement that man, afraid of these strange beings, has attributed to them beautiful or pleasantly grotesque forms which in reality they do not possess. Thus we have the nereids and oceanids—but nevertheless man could not fully disguise the true foulness of these creatures. Therefore there are legends of the Gorgons, of Scylla and the harpies—and, significantly, of the mermaids and their soullessness. No doubt you know the mermaid tale—how they long to steal the soul of a man, and draw it out by means of their kiss.”
Dean was at the window now, his back to the Japanese. As Yamada paused he said tonelessly, “Go on.”
“I have reason to believe,” Yamada went on very quietly, “that Morella Godolfo, the woman from Alhambra, was not fully—human. She left no issue. These things never have children—they cannot.”
“What do you mean?” Dean had turned and was facing the Japanese, his face a ghastly white, the shadows beneath his eyes hideously livid. He repeated harshly, “What do you mean? You can’t frighten me with your tales—if that’s what you’re trying to do. You—my uncle wants me out of this house, for some reason of his own. You’re taking this means of getting me out—aren’t you? Eh?”
“You must leave this house,” Yamada said. “Your uncle is coming, but he may not be in time. Listen to me: these creatures—the sea-dwellers—envy man. Sunlight, and warm fires, and the fields of earth—things which the sea-dwellers cannot normally possess. These things—and love. You remember what I said about mind-transference—the possession of a brain by an alien intelligence. That is the only way these things can attain that which they desire, and know the love of man or woman. Sometimes—not very often—one of these creatures succeeds in possessing itself of a human body. They watch always. When there is a wreck, they go there, like vultures to a feast. They can swim phenomenally fast. When a man is drowning, the defenses of his mind are down, and sometimes the sea-dwellers can thus acquire a human body. There have been tales of men saved from wrecks who ever after were oddly changed.
“Morella Godolfo was one of these creatures! The Godolfos knew much of the dark lore, but used it for evil purposes—the so-called black magic. And it was, I think, through this that sea-dweller gained power to usurp the brain and body of the woman. A transference took place. The mind of the sea-dweller took possession of Morella Godolfo’s body, and the intelligence of the original Morella was forced into the terrible form of that creature of the abyss. In time the human body of the woman died, and the usurping mind returned to its original shell. The intelligence of Morella Godolfo was then ejected from its temporary prison, and left homeless. That is true death.”
Dean shook his head slowly, as though in denial, but did not speak. And inexorably Yamada kept on.
“For years, generations, since then she has dwelt in the sea, waiting. Her power is strongest here, where she once lived. But, as I told you, only under unusual circumstances can this—transference take place. The tenants of this house might be troubled with dreams, but that would be all. The evil being had no power to steal their bodies. Your uncle knew that, or he would have insisted that the place be immediately destroyed. He did not foresee that you would ever live here.”
The little Japanese bent forward, and his eyes were twin points of black light.
“You do not need to tell me what you have undergone in the past month. I know. The sea-dweller has power over you. For one thing, there are bonds of blood, even though you are not directly descended from her. And your love for the ocean—your uncle spoke of that. You live here alone with your paintings and your imaginative fancies; you see no one else. You are an ideal victim, and it was easy for that sea horror to become en rapport with you. Even now you show the stigmata.”
Dean was silent, his face a pale shadow amidst the darker ones in the corners of the room. What was the man trying to tell him? What were these hints leading up to?
“Remember what I have said.” Doctor Yamada’s voice was fanatically earnest. “That creature wants you for your youth—your soul. She has lured you in sleep, with visions of Poseidonis, the twilight grottoes in the deep. She has sent you beguiling visions at first, to hide what she was doing. She has drained your life forces, weakened your resistance, waiting until she is strong enough to take possession of your brain.
“I have told you what she wants—what all these hybrid horrors raven for. She will reveal herself to you in time, and when her will is strong upon you in slumber, you will do her bidding. She will take you down into the deep, and show you the kraken-fouled gulfs where these things bide. You will go willingly, and that will be your doom. She may lure you to their feasts there—the feasts they hold upon the drowned things they find floating from wrecked ships. And you will live such madness in your sleep because she rules you. And then—then, when you have become weak enough, she will have her desire. The sea-thing will usurp your body and walk once more on earth. And you will go down into the darkness where once you dwelt in dreams, for ever. Unless I am mistaken, you have already seen enough to know that I speak truth. I think that this terrible moment is not so far off, and I warn you that alone you cannot hope to resist the evil. Only with the aid of your uncle and me——”
Doctor Yamada stood up. He moved forward and confronted the dazed youth face to face. In a low voice he asked, “In your dreams—has the thing kissed you?”
For a heart-beat there was utter silence. Dean opened his mouth to speak, and then a curious little warning note seemed to sound in his brain. It rose, like the quiet roaring of a conch-shell, and a vague nausea assailed him.
Almost without volition he heard himself saying, “No.”
Dimly, as though from an incredibly far distance, he heard Yamada suck in his breath, as if surprized. Then the Japanese said, “That is good. Very good. Now listen: your uncle will be here soon. He has chartered a special plane. Will you be my guest until he arrives?”
The room seemed to darken before Dean’s eyes. The form of the Japanese was receding, dwindling. Through the window the surf-sound came crashing, and it rolled on in waves through Dean’s brain. In its thunder a thin, insistent whispering penetrated.
“Accept,” it murmured. “Accept!” And Dean heard his own voice accept Yamada’s invitation.
He seemed incapable of coherent thought. That last dream haunted him... and now Doctor Yamada’s disturbing story... he was ill—that was it!—very ill. He wanted very much to sleep, now. A flood of darkness seemed to wash up and engulf him. Gratefully he allowed it to sweep through his tired head. Nothing existed but the dark, and a restless lapping of unquiet waters.
Yet he seemed to know, in an odd way, that he was still—some outer part of him—conscious. He strangely realized that he and Doctor Yamada had left the house, were entering a car, and driving a long way. He was—with that strange, external other self—talking casually to the doctor; entering his house in San Pedro; drinking; eating. And all the while his soul, his real being, was buried in waves of blackness.
Finally a bed. From below, the surf seemed to blend into the blackness that engulfed his brain. It spoke to him now, as he rose stealthily and clambered out of the window. The fall jarred his outer self considerably, but he was on the ground outside without injury. He kept in the shadows as he crept away down to the beach—the black, hungry shadows that were like the darkness surging through his soul.